How to Live
by misscam
Summary: He's decided she will live. Everything else becomes a matter of how. [TenRose]


How to Live  
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.

Author's Note: Some vague spoilers for series one, and series two up to "The Girl in the Fireplace". Some vague classic Who references as well. Thanks to Wendy for beta'ing.

II

Earth, 2205, and John Douglas Dermid is listening to Rose Tyler scream, and wondering if he's forgotten how to have compassion. He used to remember screams. Now it's just noise, forgotten when he walks home. He sleeps at night now and his dreams are silent.

Maybe it's not such a huge loss.

It's the only way he knows how to live with himself and he clings to it.

II

The Doctor's waiting again. Waiting, dreading, imagining this time - this time she's not coming. Even if it would be a dark sort of relief to know it's over, he can't wish that, won't wish that, refuses to. 

It's dark, and he can't see the walls, but he can feel them, lean against them, run calculations of the force needed to tear them down in his head. They're comforting, not because he's relieved he knows, but because he knows he could do it and may not have to. 

Destruction is easy. Time does it at every moment. Stars blaze till cold, rocks grind to dust, flesh decays to death. Destruction is easy and he likes it hard.

Easy to accept death. Easy to bring death. Easy to accept Rose might not endure this.

He's decided she will live. Everything else becomes a matter of how.

How many dead, how much force, how much pain, how much of Rose left scarred.

How much mercy lost this time.

He sticks a hand in his pocket and grimaces slightly at the burning feel. Dislocated shoulder, maybe. At least it goes with the rest of his bruises, a nice little map of the colours between black and red. 

"No sense of subtle," he says aloud, because his own voice is comforting. "Honestly, clubs went out of fashion thousands of years ago. Did humans wake up this morning with a deep sense of nostalgia and longing for more flea-driven times?"

There is no reply, but then, it would be a sad sign if there was one when he's talking to himself. A very sad sign, one he hasn't had in weeks at least. Surely. Except this morning, and that doesn't count, since it was only Rose having a laugh.

Rose.

He forces back the anger and dread again. He doesn't need it yet. Calm now. Yes, calm. Very calm. So very calm his nails are digging painfully into his palm and he's screaming at the door to return Rose to him now, now, now.

He's out of breath when the door does open, and Rose stumbles in, only whimpering when she falls into his reaching arms. He's glad it's rather dark and he can't see, because he doesn't want to.

Her cheeks are wet with tears, her wrists are warm and swollen, and he can feel the faint traces of needle pricks in her skin, and he wants to scream again, because humans endure so much pain already and still they inflict it on each other carelessly. 1505, 2205, nothing much changes.

"Rose," he says instead, very, very calmly.

"Doctor," she mutters, voice hollow. "I dreamt..."

"I'm not a dream," he says firmly. "Knowing your dreams, I'd probably be a dashing hero dressed in silk and galloping around on a white horse to save the day, sprouting Byron poetry and one-liners from _Spooks_."

She lets out something that could be a substitute for a laugh, and his heart soars. "Just missing... The silk and the horse."

He laughs, and when he hears the door open, Rose clings to him, her fingers clawing into his back. His turn again now, and she knows, already shaking her head. Still will enough left in her to hold on to him, then, and he feels an almost perverse joy at it.

"Don't worry," he whispers in her ear, hurriedly. "Prisons of 2205 had one major weakness - they weren't Doctor-proof. Wait ten minutes and start pounding on the door, screaming you're ready to tell them everything. Do that, Rose."

"Yes," she agrees, not asking any more, just trusting, and trust is burden and he already feels tired, bones and flesh aching. But he smiles still, because he's made up his mind, and that's how it's going to be.

"See you soon, Rose," he says, and it's a promise.

II

He's broken many promises, some regretted, and some not, but this one, this one he keeps. This one matters, and Rose's arms are warm, slipped around his waist, and her cheek resting against his back. He wants to look at her face, see what she's thinking, but he has to keep his focus on steering the damn bull.

"Couldn't find a horse," he says, and she makes a noise that could mean anything. He hopes it's amusement, because that makes it easier. 

"How did you manage to convince them to let you anywhere near a computer?" she mutters after a moment.

"Screamed a lot in pain and promised I would show them secrets of the future if they just stopped."

"Oh."

"Mind you, I did. Sort of. It was just the secret of how to shut the power supply to a whole city off. No _EastEnders_ tonight. That probably makes me the most wanted criminal in this particular part of the world," he reflects. "At least until they cancel _Neighbours._"

"Best to get out of town, then," she observes, but there is no real spark in her voice, and he's half regretting he didn't tear the whole damn prison down. _Torchwood Readjustment Centre for Alien Influences_ his behind. Fancy name for prehistoric methods.

"One bull-express to the TARDIS in progress," he says instead, gripping the bull's horns more firmly. Best not to crash them into a ditch, really. Rose will demand a refund, and in creative ways, especially since getting them here was his idea in the first place.

"Can we stop?" she mutters, and slides off the moment he brings the bull to a halt. He follows a little distance behind as she unsteadily walks across the artificial grass, finally falling on all fours and throwing up. He watches for a moment, feeling uncertain just what to do until he sits back on her heels, looking lost. He can't help but come over, sit down next to her and be lost with her.

"Why?" she asks.

"Humanity's feeling a little paranoid around this time, aliens and all," he says, and wonders why he's making their excuses for them now. "We show up and talk a little too much - okay, I talk a little too much - and paranoia does the rest."

She looks up at him, lifting a hand to his cheek. He winces a little at the touch, skin still raw, but when she lets her hand drop, he catches it.

"Let's walk the rest of the way," he says softly, and she nods. When she stands up a little unsteadily, leaning against him, she smiles, even with bruised lips.

"Just need the silk now."

"Yes," he agrees, deliriously happy. If she can laugh, she can heal. If she can heal, she can want to stay with him still. It doesn't have to be like Tegan. All good things. He can bring more good things. Rose can look forward, and see him, and forget what she doesn't need to remember. He'll show her how.

She lives, and he lives, and the matter of how is waiting.

He plans all the way back to the TARDIS, and thinks it brilliant.

II

Brilliant plan, stage one: Medical care. Rose isn't too keen on a medical examination, but he persists and finally she just closes her eyes and lets him touch her, and he almost wishes she wouldn't. Every sign of violence makes his head feel like ice, sharp and crystallized. Burn marks and bruises and blood, telling a little tale of torture for Rose Tyler.

He could tell her there is no shame, but she wouldn't believe him, because it wouldn't be true yet. It will be.

For him too, he adds as an afterthought.

"I told them things," she says quietly, eyes still closed.

"I know. So did I. You know me - talk, talk, talk, save the world, talk, talk, talk." He pauses, noting a bruise on her neck that could only have come from a boot. They could've just given her drugs and she would've told them everything. They could have and didn't. 

"Doctor?" she whispers, and he can't answer her, can't say anything that wouldn't be saying far too much. He just continues his careful examination, washing away some dried blood, easing ointments on her skin and finally, pricking her skin with a needle of "good" drugs. She still winces, even if she tries to hide it.

Traitorous things, memories.

"You now," she says, and he knows protesting is no good, even if he is the Doctor. Sometimes, he thinks that's why he brought companions in the first place. Sometimes, he wonders why he still does.

He keeps his trousers on, because it's Rose, and while he can be Doctorish and see her naked and then forget it, as the Doctor he is (and, boy, has he gotten good at lying to himself, too!), he wouldn't want to place that burden on her. Very noble, in fact. Yep. All about noble, him.

She sighs when she draws her fingers through his hair, and he remembers the smell of burning hair - his hair, and burning flesh after, and death then and new life, new flesh, new hair.

He kept it cut short ever after, he remembers, until he died again. Now he doesn't, and the feel of fingers combing through it is strangely lovely. It reminds him there's still much to explore in this body, even if he's just had a crash course in what hurts it. 

"Did you find out what you wanted?" she asks. "And don't tell me we were just having a lark. When we're having a lark, you tend not to tell me it's just a lark as much."

He makes a note of that for future reference on non-larking. "No."

"Did you find out something you didn't want?"

Damn. "Yes."

She considers that, and he winces as she touches his shoulder, the pain there half forgotten until she reminded him. "The warden?"

"A man of few words, but much physical language," he observes.

"I kneed him," she says proudly.

"A literary declaration to shame even Shakespeare," he declares, and she giggles a little, but a little too much, and he knows it for what it is. That's okay. He knows now what the leather jacket was all about, and it still was comforting to have it then. There's always comforts, and he tilts his head up to look at Rose.

"It'll heal," he says, and that's a promise too.

II

Brilliant plan, stage two: Anger management. Rose is looking at him like he's mad, which might be true most of the time, but he still gives her an indignant glare, and tries not to look too hard at the closed cut above her eyes. It certainly won't heal faster just by staring at it.

"Why are we here?" she asks, taking in the surroundings and clearly finding them unimpressive. "Why are we in a... quarry...?"

"Not just any quarry, Rose! They mine thought-clay here. Think of a shape, touch it, and it will form itself to your will. Very handy for design, you can imagine. The height of fashion in 4567, until they discovered it could also shape itself according to subconscious will and then it just got very Freudian and weird."

"Freudian," she repeats.

"Freudian," he says, and grins. "Of course, Freud was really a Blaganian from Blagbo, and they have seven sexual organs."

"That explains a few things."

"Even more if you'd met his mother."

She grins back. "And we're here to recreate her in clay?"

"I'm quite sure we wouldn't do her justice," he replies dryly, and reveals what he's been gripping behind his back, waiting for the big reveal.

"A bat?" she says, sounding a bit unimpressed. "You're kidding me. A bat... Thought-forming clay..."

"Exactly!" he beams.

She looks extremely unimpressed. "I'm supposed to go around bashing clay with a baseball bat?"

"Yep. Very therapeutic."

"Right," she says, taking the bat from his hand and walking over to the nearest heap of clay. A moment later, it forms itself into the shape of him. "Very therapeutic, you're right."

"Haha," he replies, reaching into the TARDIS for the other bat. She sticks her tongue out at him, but does try a few swings. The third time she overdoes it, and he manages to catch her before she falls over. "Easy there, batgirl."

She pokes her bat into his ribs, and he winces, still sore. Her expression changes, and for a moment he thinks she actually might kiss him, because humans often do when they can think of no other way to comfort. But instead she just draws a finger across his lips.

"Sorry, batman," she says. "Batdoctor, I mean."

"Just don't call the TARDIS 'Albert'," he cautions lightly, drawing back. "I don't particularly feel like being dumped in the great Sewage Leak of 6983. Last time, I couldn't get the stench out for a century. Got almost used to it."

She grins, and follows him through the piles of clay, improving her swing as she goes. He doesn't comment on the shape of her clay, and she doesn't comment on how many Daleks his shapes into. In some ways, not much has changed since he last went here. In some ways it has, and he watches Rose whack away at a shape he knows she sees in her dreams, because he certainly sees it in his.

What binds you to another can sometimes even be shared pain, he knows, and embraces her when she clings to him, clay in her hair and the destroyed clay-shape of Jack at her feet.

"I hate him a little," she whispers, resting her cheek against his chest. "He's gone, isn't he? You never say. You never..."

"I'm sorry."

"Will you just forget me?"

"No. I never forget."

"You just never talk about it either," she says, and there's anger there too, and he lets her have it, biting back the urge to defend himself. She doesn't understand, but he doesn't want her to.

"I remember," he promises, and watches Ace's bat in Rose's hand, clutched hard. He remembers. He never forgets.

That's what makes it hard.

II

Brilliant plan, stage three: Blame location. He hasn't been quite sure when to move to the next stage of his plan, but when he finds Rose in a dark room of the TARDIS, looking at nothing but the absence of light, then he knows.

"It's not your fault," he says, and sits down next to her, closing the door and leaving only the dark.

"Which part?" she asks flatly. "Being captured, being tortured, or being very co-operative as long as the pain would stop?"

"All of it. Rose, brave men have broken from less than that."

"Including you?"

"I'm not brave," he says harshly, and thinks of a coward who killed a planet for the Universe, committing one act of genocide to avert many others and weeping all the while. His blame, and there's no one left to grant absolution. They're all dead.

He can feel her look at him, and a moment later, she rests her head against his shoulder. "You're not the one to decide that, Doctor."

Maybe he isn't, he considers. He wasn't even the one to decide when to die, as it turned out, and he blames her a little bit for that.

"It was my fault we were captured," he says, and it feels strangely freeing to say. "I wanted to know more about Torchwood. I didn't think beyond that."

"It's okay," she whispers, another sort of absolution, just like giving his life for hers was. "Just take me somewhere with less arseholes next time. And without thought-clay. I don't think I want to know why you had one turn into David Beckham."

"I'll tell you," he promises, and he does, delighting in the sound of her laughter in the dark and thinking it quite okay after all.

II

Brilliant plan, stage four: Moving on. No thought-clay, no arseholes, no David Beckham-the-shoe-thief. Just him and Rose on a London rooftop, basking in the sun.

"Your mother took it rather well," he reflects. "I thought she'd at least slap me again, or chuck tea at me."

"I think she's too fond of your features this time," Rose replies, popping up on her elbows. "Besides, told her it wasn't your fault I was sporting a shiner. Didn't want to take any chances in case she wasn't that fond of your features. I like them."

He beams.

"What's the weirdest you've looked?" she asks, tilting her head as she looks at him. "I mean, aside from the big ears."

"Hey!" he protests. "I liked those. I could flap them. I can't now."

"What shame," she says dryly.

"I can wiggle my tongue more," he offers, and demonstrates. She looks very interested, he notes. "I was curly a few times. Liked scarves. Recorders. Celery..."

"Celery?" she interrupts, looking bemused.

"I'm very supportive of vegetables and fruit," he replies seriously, then laughs as she laughs.

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Celery?"

"Or other things. Other people," she suggests, biting her lip slightly, and he knows she's thinking of Sarah Jane and everything Sarah Jane implies, and perhaps other things she's picked up on too, because she is innocent, but not blind. "You know, the past."

"I take you to see the past all the time," he says dumbly, because it's easier. "The French court, Scotland, Cardiff, the Blitz, Princess Diana's wedding - mind you, Prince Charles can't flap his ears half as good as I could..."

"Doctor!"

He sighs, and feels her take his hand and he tries to think of something to say that she'll settle for that doesn't leave him naked.

"If I look back, I see what I'd want to change. There's no one else left, Rose. If I... There's no one to... There's just me," he says, and he can see Rose think, trying to piece together what he isn't saying too. He almost wants to tell her to stop, and almost wants her to push harder, and almost wants to be human skin for a little while, not knowing what he knows and knowing only her hand is warm in his. "I can visit the past, but I can't go back. I can't change what that warden did to you, but I'll want to. Do you understand, Rose?"

"Yes," she whispers, stroking his thumb. "You move on."

"I move on," he agrees. "Move on with me?"

"Love to." She grins, and he knows it's a promise she'll break sooner or later. They all do.

He moves on from that too.

II

Brilliant plan, stage five: Reclaiming confidence. Of course, that is right tricky, because you can't let people know that's what you're doing, because that will only instill fake confidence. Which is why he is currently chained to the sacrificial totem of Dogyn and, if Rose doesn't get there very soon, he's going to be eaten by a giant Dogyn bird, and that is never particularly pleasant.

He might've been trying a bit too hard to get this one realistic, he reflects.

The bush parts, and he half expects the Dogyn, but it is Rose, even if it's Rose looking like she'd want to eat him too. He beams at her, and she scowls at him.

"Did you want to be captured, or are you just an idiot?" she says, breathing heavily as she makes it over. Hair clings to her face, and he has a strong urge to brush it away.

"Always the idiot," he says cheerfully, watching her wave the sonic screwdriver at the shackles. They come open, and he rubs his wrists a little, still beaming at her. "Got past the guards, then?"

"I put birdseeds in their trousers," she replies, and looks a little proud and a lot like it was nothing at all. "They're now running from a very peckish Dockyn."

"Dogyn," he corrects. "Sounds like they'll have a few feathers to pluck."

"Witty," she mutters darkly, and looks at him darkly too. "Conveniently forgot your sonic screwdriver before you went out to look at the local bird life, huh? Conveniently mentioned just where the guards would usually be during ceremonies yesterday, yet managed to be captured by them today?"

He feels a deflation of his brilliant plan coming on.

"All very convenient," she goes on, sounding angry now. "Almost like a test."

"Not a test," he says hurriedly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Right. Just a plan. You probably even had a back-up plan if I didn't show up."

"Nope," he says brightly, and she gapes at him.

"You wanker!"

"What?"

"You wanker!" she repeats. "What if I hadn't come? What if I'd been too angry at you? What if..."

"I would've figured something out!" he says defensively. He would've. Surely. Probably. Yes, probably.

"Before or after the bird decided that you tasted like chicken?" she snaps, and he stares at her for a moment before he laughs. She joins him, but only for a moment before she whacks him hard on the arm. "It's not funny!"

"You're right. 'Tastes like chicken' jokes were officially declared Not Funny by 2/3rd majority in the great Universe Congress in the year Apple dot six. I abstained, mind you."

She stares at him a moment longer, and then she is kissing him and he's feeling very, very confused. He hasn't planned this now. 'Rose Tyler, tonsil-hockey with' isn't on his calender. If it was, he sure would've underlined it.

He doesn't quite kiss her back, because he knows that would be sending signals he's always been very careful not to send to his travelling companions (at least not unless he has a time vortex to conveniently make them forget). Sometimes, they seemed to catch up on them anyway, but then it felt like less his fault and he could live with that. He can't help but feel still, and not resist her, because it's Rose with confidence, and that was rather the point and boy, is he ever getting good at excuses.

"Don't do that to me again," she says, lips hard against his. He's glad her tongue prevents him from answering and giving any promises, since he would only have to lie. Instead, he just looks at her as she takes his hand and follows meekly as she leads him away.

This plan might be going a little too well, he thinks.

II

Brilliant plan, stage unexpected: Too much confidence. As it turns out, confidence is a bit of a balancing act, and he thinks he might've fallen deep into the abyss of Rose Tyler seduction attempts and he's not sure he can get back up.

"Rose?" he tries, and feels her tongue circle his earlobe. "What are you doing?"

"Taking back control of my body," she says, wriggling slightly in his lap. "Very therapeutic, don't you agree?"

"I don't think I've tried this as therapy before," he manages, her hands in his hair and her upper body pressed against his making it a bit hard to think.

"Freud would like it."

He thinks about that for a while while she traces kisses down his neck, and decides not to bring up that Freud would probably want one mother or another involved, since that would wreck the mood and he's strangely hesitant to. Humans do use sex for many reasons, and if Rose feels she needs this, he'd rather it be him than anyone else. 

Put like that, it doesn't sound nearly as selfish as it really is, he thinks. This way, he can still have the memory of it, but be able to explain it away as a one-off little therapy session and just what she wanted and he gave, because it was her.

He is a right bastard, he knows, and she gasps a little when he kisses her, properly kisses her, feeling her hair against his face. She tastes of sun and sweat, and he can feel her breasts rise and fall slightly as she breathes. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, a rhythm picking up as he helps her yank clothes off, and traces her skin with his fingers. Almost healed now. Just faint colour tells of hurts past, and he kisses the traces of them.

She claws slightly at his tie before she manages to get it off, but the jacket and the shirt she unbuttons without trouble, running her nails down his chest as she does. He likes it this body around, he decides. He hasn't always, but skin changes. Skin adapts, and Rose makes a strangled noise as he slips a hand into her jeans.

"Rose?" he murmurs, watching the warmth rise to her cheek. "We shouldn't..."

He definitely shouldn't make her buck against his touch, and she definitely shouldn't be fumbling with his trousers, and he definitely, definitely shouldn't be straining to meet her touch and shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't be sinking into her and whimpering slightly as he does, but he is, oh so is.

"This doesn't have to mean anything," she mutters, breath ragged.

Therapy is whatever makes you feel better, he considers, and sometimes, sex does qualify.

"I know. Just therapy," he promises, and knows it a lie when she moves against him, a little awkwardly at first, but learning, always learning, and he thinks fleetingly of the first time he took her hand, and all he has given to her and all she has taken unasked and his life and death in her kiss, and her life and death in his blink of an eye and time's roar going so very still as he bites down on her shoulder.

He wonders if he planned this too after all.

II

Brilliant plan, stage six: Forgiveness. It doesn't get much harder than that, he knows, and Rose does too, but going with him still. Trusting, as always, hand in his, stepping into her future and someone else's past.

Earth, 2180, and eight year old John Douglas Dermid is kicking his football around, like any other child. He looks happy, and perhaps he is, at this time, in this place.

"This is him?" she asks, watching with something like fear and something like disgust and something like curiosity too.

"Yes."

"He looks so nice."

"He was nice," he says softly, watching the ball bounce. "Wanted to be a football player at day and a superhero at night. He got lost a little."

The ball bounces again, hitting the pavement and hitting Rose, who flinches. For a moment, they look at each other, the boy who will grow up to be a prison warden and a torturer, and Rose Tyler, who's been his victim and isn't anymore.

And she smiles a little, sadly, freeing her hand from the Doctor's and picking up the ball.

"Sorry I hit you," the boy says, looking a little downcast and a little afraid, perhaps thinking Rose will take his ball. Her power now, to hurt or not to.

Not to.

"I'm Rose. It's okay," she mutters, voice calm and only a little unsteady as she hands over the ball. "I forgive you."

John Douglas Dermid smiles, and runs off, ball tucked under his arm, into his future, already forgetting, the Doctor knows. Kindness is forgotten. Hurts are remembered in scars.

"I still hate him," Rose says tonelessly, but the intensity of it is already dying, and she just looks tired.

"I know. A lot of people did. In 2206, he'll be killed in a prison riot."

She nods slowly, and he puts his hand on her shoulder, waiting, resisting the urge to fill the silence with babble. It's harder than it once was.

"Are we done now?" she finally says, turning her head to look at him. "With your little plan, oh so brilliantly crafted?"

"Just one more thing, and we will be," he promises. "Back to larking, larking, larking across time and space. The larking duo! The larking team! The magnificent larks! Partners in lark! Oooh, Lark Abouts!"

He pauses as he finally notices her amused glance.

"Too silly?" he asks, and she nods. "I get very excited about larking."

"That's okay," she says, smiling as they head back to the TARDIS. "I forgive you."

He hopes that's a promise for the future too. 

II

Brilliant plan, stage seven: Beyond. There's always an after, for better or worse. There's even an after to survival, and he's living it. Death is easy. Time does it at every moment. Stars blaze till cold, rocks grind to dust, flesh decays to death. Death is easy and he likes it hard.

"So where's this?" she asks, as the TARDIS pauses in flight, the hum telling him the TARDIS knows this place too.

"Nowhere," he says. "It was a planet a long time ago."

She looks at him in the green light, and he can see she understands, at least as much as she can. 

"Just rocks and dust now," he goes on, feeling the rocks sing to him. Always a dirge. The dead are silent, but time remembers, and Gallifrey held time itself. 

"And a survivor," she says, looking at him intently. "That's life, isn't it? It's not all dead. Not all rocks and dust."

Maybe that's what the TARDIS decided too, he thinks. Maybe that's what he's been learning all this time. There's the will to live. Everything else becomes a matter of how.

Traitorous thing, life.

And Rose is looking at him, and he sweeps her up in a hug, spinning her around madly, laughing as the TARDIS spins too, and they end up in a pile on the floor and she's looking at him again like she might kiss him, and he likes that too. One more danger, one more way to live until you don't.

"Rose Tyler," he says, and grins at her, bruises all gone and memories only memories, and still will in her to hold onto him. "Fancy a lark?"

"Will there finally be silk?"

"Yes," he promises. "Larks in silk. You'll love it. Adore it. Revere it. Dig it. Relish it. Coo it. Like it. Be into it."

"Oh, shut up."

"How?"

"I'll show you."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

II

Earth, 2180, and John Douglas Dermid is trying to remember a name. Nice girl, the blonde, giving him back his ball. Maybe she lives around here and he'll meet her again, and his mother has told him it's polite to remember names, and one day he might have a use for it.

Daisy? No. But it was a flower, he thinks, or something flowery or plant-y or green.

He's forgotten, but it's no huge loss, he reasons. She can always tell him again the next time they meet. He'll not just run off then. He'll be nice. Promise.

Cross his heart and hope to die.

FIN


End file.
